Tags » Prose

At the hands of the butcher

Head home, young one.

Unforgiving is the night.

He awaits, seeking atonement.

Your soul is but a meal,

Your head a trophy.



Lord of filth, thy lands of plague seethe with wretchedness.

Unclean tongues mutter praise in temples bereft of all hope.

Lost is the Onlooker, thy pure soul succumbs to the folly of man.



southborn coldheart
distant mountains
frost starts
and stretches north to the plains
from where the snow falls
upon the crags of Andorra; Occitania; Catalonia;
France and Spain… 212 more words


Gemini Rescue Preview

We have big plans for Rion Guard, COO of Gemini Rescue this season.  So big in fact, that he’s our featured character for Season 3 of the Adventure Frequency.  2,275 more words

Adventure Frequency

Prelude to the Banshees: what I have written so far

The couple were due to join some friends for cocktails and dinner at Le Cinq á Sept by seven or whatever, but a vicious disagreement with a pair of sheer pantyhose had made them so tardy that “fashionably late” was no longer passable; though Samantha and Michael were… 390 more words


Sing Your Serenade, Poor Mortal

Sing your serenade, poor mortal.

Sing it out loud for me.

Scream it until you tire.

Till your voice quivers and bleeds.

Now enchant me with your heart. 42 more words


The Sword and the Sheath

There was nothing abnormal about that night. The world had fallen into routine. Everything was tediously normal. The boy lay awake in his bed as if to protest the day ending without an unfamiliar occurrence. 3,862 more words